


And I'm Always Watching

by anivhee



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Porn, Anal Fingering, Basically, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Boxers, Chair Sex, Community: makinghugospin, Established Relationship, Foreplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Minor Violence, Pining Enjolras, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fill, Rope Bondage, Teasing, as in the sport, i guess, like seriously, not the piece of clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anivhee/pseuds/anivhee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras watches. He always watches. </p><p>But at night Grantaire returns the favor, as he’s wont to do.</p><p>(Also known as the one where Grantaire is a boxer that Enjolras really ridiculously adores. And kinda takes home to have his way with).</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I'm Always Watching

**Author's Note:**

> hahaha i'm so sorry i don't know how to porn. and plot. and write at all.
> 
> this is a response to the [kinkmeme prompt](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13488.html?thread=10570928#t10570928): _Grantaire is a boxer and he has the body of one. Enjolras is freakishly obsessed with it so he ties R up, slathers him with oil, and rubs himself all over R's body._
> 
> _Bonus if he rides Grantaire after._   
>  (i'm so terribly sorry op i truly am)
> 
> zillion thanks to [shira](http://theydieholdinghands.tumblr.com) and [isa](http://eeshbelle.livejournal.com) for their help/beta this awful thing (all errors you might find are mine for being a stubborn human being) (also thanks to [ana](http://static-abyss.tumblr.com) and [grace](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeopletoomustrise) for the unhealthy moral support you're too good for me everyone is agh)

These things always go the same way.

Enjolras carefully remains in the background, watching intently as the men before him roar and dance around each other, forming a half moon of sweaty limbs and foul mouths, chanting for the one on top to “finish him off now!” while others grumble and spit on the floor—where the one lying on the ground would usually have their face—cursing their luck and emptying their pockets reluctantly, giving away money they should invest in food for their children or a good pair of socks. Enjolras watches. He always watches.

He clenches his fists regularly. It isn’t as if he doesn’t know that this territory isn’t his to claim, and that the man with the broken nose and blood staining his lips doesn’t know how to fight back, but still he clenches his fists. He breathes out several times, doing his best to calm the urge to bolt beside the man and _hurt_ whoever dares to touch him. Somehow, so far, he has managed to remain calm, a meticulously crafted mask on his face. Still, his eyes betray him every time.

No one notices, of course. No one but Grantaire (but he’s usually in the middle of the brawl, so he can’t smile that smug grin of his and wink at him) thus Enjolras is left to watch. He’s used to watching at this point.

And boy, isn’t Grantaire a sight when he fights: eyes shining brighter than a supernova, muscles flexing, sweat running down his back—the fluidity of his movement never failing to capture Enjolras’ full attention, regardless of the heap of bodies surrounding him, surrounding them, establishing the line Enjolras knows not to cross. The fights will never be his element, Grantaire says, they don’t involve pretty boys with bad coordination like Enjolras. It’s not like Enjolras cares. He gets to watch Grantaire shine, and that’s what’s best about the bloody mess: it makes Grantaire happy.

Not that he’ll ever tell him; Enjolras figures he doesn’t care. As he watches Grantaire’s face break into a grin, fist connecting with the other man’s ribs, Enjolras is left to trail his eyes along the beautiful curve of his bicep, the straining tendons and muscles, lines he’s sure Grantaire would understand better than him. There’s so much he doesn’t understand. There’s no need to, he tells himself; he doesn’t need to understand the hunger at the pit of his stomach and the impulsive urge to wet his lips when he spots a single drop of sweat breaking its way through Grantaire’s chest, pooling at his navel. It’s too fast for it to stay there, as Grantaire dances around his opponent with a breathtaking grace, mocking him and delighting the crowd (how well he would fit on a stage crosses Enjolras’ mind more than once, but the thought is gone as soon as the object of his fixation ducks a blow and strikes another, a tooth flying out his opponent’s mouth). Most of the men around him cheer, others shout insults at both fighters. It’s the same thing all the time.

But Enjolras is used to watching. And watch he does.

:::

At night Grantaire returns the favor, as he’s wont to do.

Enjolras has an infallible method: if Grantaire has any major injuries, he only watches. But if Grantaire remains intact—with only a scratch or two, a few bruises sometimes—he _might_ get to touch.

It’s an oddly exciting thing for him, to tease Grantaire like this. To whisper furiously against his ear as he fumbles with his clothes, licking his neck and pushing him down onto the bed—the chair, sometimes. Watch the change in Grantaire’s face as he pulls at his hair, holds him steady, ties him up. The needy whines at the back of his throat as Enjolras draws a finger across his chest and down his stomach, tracing patterns of skin he knows by heart, knowing the way they make Grantaire squirm. Enjolras might not appreciate alcohol much, but he drowns in the scent and the desperation of his lover, feeling as though he is the drunk one in their ministrations.

He leaves him like that sometimes, squirming in his spot, hands tied and sweat dripping down his neck. Every now and then Enjolras teases him more—getting to his knees before him, nuzzling at the soft skin where his thigh meets his hip; blowing air softly over Grantaire's achingly hard cock, fingers dancing lightly at the tip.

Grantaire curses loudly, he always does. Pleads for him to move, to do more, to let him touch, to let him _feel_. Enjolras usually leaves the room at that point, rejoicing in the shouts and profanities coming from it. He takes his time to fetch lube and oils, even though he knows exactly where he keeps them. It’s not like he isn’t hard as well—it hurts to move at times, precome leaking as he moves around their flat—but he enjoys going slow, teasing: it wouldn’t be half as fun nor half as pleasurable to hurry up when they have the entire night. 

When he returns to the room Grantaire is breathing heavily and glaring at the ceiling, hard cock resting against his thigh. Enjolras’ mouth waters at the sight, wetting his lips in reflex and making his way to the chair, where he firmly tied Grantaire’s hands earlier. He leaves the lube on the bed—or rather, throws it in that direction—eyes focused entirely on the creature in the chair. Grantaire groans when he spots him, eyes blazing as Enjolras pushes his knees apart with his own, opening the bottle of oil and obscenely pouring it over Grantaire’s chest, the cold liquid tearing a strangled yelp out of him. Enjolras wastes no time: as the oil runs down his lover’s chest, travelling along his muscles, he places a palm at Grantaire’s shoulder and pushes him backwards until the back of the chair hits the wall—it’s not really that far away, the angle being just enough for Enjolras to kneel between Grantaire’s legs again and run his hands across the man’s body with complete and ridiculous devotion.

“Enjolras,” he hears Grantaire whisper above him, voice husky and well, goddamn _sexy_ , and Enjolras can’t help but whimper a little. He extracts himself from the task at hand and fetches more oil, smearing it across his own chest, and Grantaire moans. Enjolras leans closer to him, pressing his chest to Grantaire’s dick and moving up and down, rubbing skin against skin, nails scratching every bit of flesh they find. They never even break eye contact as Enjolras crawls his way up until his mouth fits perfectly on Grantaire’s neck, legs tangling around him, chest still rubbing against chest. 

Enjolras feels delirious as he licks and sucks and bites every bit of tanned skin he can reach, grunting and grinding against Grantaire, who keeps mumbling his name like a prayer. His hands haven’t stopped moving, sliding up and down, left and right, grabbing, slapping, scratching every uncovered mark—claiming his skin as his, not the men who left bruises or cuts, kissing reverently every wound and sucking desperately a spot beside it, stating his possession. Rubbing his cheek against stubble, whispering endearments and promises and confessions. He feels dizzy and thrilled, as he often does when he’s around Grantaire, his emotions pouring out of his skin in waves, stealing kisses out of the man he’s straddling, rolling his hips against his. 

Everytime Grantaire tries to kiss him though, he moves away, diving down to suck his nipple or to lick the expanse of his lower belly. He knows it’s cruel, but he loves the whimpers and the huffs of annoyance, the pleading; Grantaire shaking below him, trying to free himself from the ropes, making the entire chair wobble as well. He groans, “let me kiss you,” and Enjolras shushes him. He whines, “let me touch you,” and Enjolras takes him in his mouth, running his tongue over the tip and sinking down until it hits the back of his throat. Grantaire can’t look away, he knows. It’s part of his payback—when his attention isn't focused on an opponent, he only has eyes for Enjolras. 

Their eyes meet once more, Enjolras bobbing his head and sucking enthusiastically, one hand caressing the inside of Grantaire's thigh while the other holds his hips in place. It's a game they've played enough times to tell, Enjolras doing as he pleases, Grantaire giving him whatever he wants.

"I'm going to come soon if you keep doing that," he moans when Enjolras covers his teeth with his lips and nips gently at his balls. He looks up at him and Grantaire curses. "I'm gonna come right now, goddamn."

"No, not yet." Enjolras commands, voice hoarse. He summons the strength he believes he has left and stands, making his way to the bed. Grantaire curses again, making him smile. “Did you think that was all?” he teases, taking the bottle of lube and returning to the place he was two minutes ago, only a few feet away from Grantaire. His grin soon becomes mischievous, tapping open the lube and letting it flow over his fingers. The smirk only grows bigger when he notices the look on Grantaire’s face, how he _knows_ what’s about to happen: the way he bites his lower lip and whimpers while his eyes remain in Enjolras’ hand, thumb circling his index and middle finger, playing with the substance. 

Enjolras moves quickly: spreading his legs before Grantaire and leveling up his hips a little, all the while watching the other man’s face, rejoicing in the _hunger_ , the _need_ that bursts from it. He tilts his head to the side, biting his lower lip, as his hand finds its way downwards, index finger circling around his entrance, massaging the area. He slips a finger inside, twisting it slowly, gasps coming out from his mouth before he can even realize it. Enjolras blinks several times, meets Grantaire’s dumbfounded expression as his gaze is fixed on the lonely finger at work, and swallows. 

“Talk to me,” Enjolras pants, adding another finger and scissoring them inside him, hips jerking against his hand. He throws his head to the side, fasting the pace, thrusting now. “Grantaire,” he growls, “ _talk to me._ ” A moan breaks through his throat, a third finger already pushing in and out of him. 

“You’re impossible,” Grantaire grunts and Enjolras moans higher, smiling despite of himself. “I fucking need to touch you, Enjolras,” he breathes out, Enjolras’ hips rolling desperately against his fingers.

“Yeah?” he asks breathlessly, arching his back and pushing deeper and deeper, scratching that spot that makes him forget about the world and makes his chest tighten with need, need for Grantaire to be there, inside of him, thrusting maniacally. He moans again, head hanging against his shoulder, eyes close shut. “I want you inside of me, Grantaire,” he mumbles, and only hears the soft whimper somewhere before him. “I _need_ you here,” he remarks his statement with another finger, and if Enjolras had his eyes open, he’d see the look of bewilderment and agony on Grantaire’s face. “Fuck me, god, I need you to fuck me.”

“Then un-fucking-tie me, you piece of shit!” Grantaire roars, and that’s when Enjolras opens his eyes: the flushed body of the man he not-so-secretly adores on full display: eyes almost out of their sockets, ragged breath and sweat on his temple. Desperation, Enjolras tells himself. He has reached it. 

He crawls his way over, pushing the other man backwards and straddling his hips, kissing him before Grantaire can complain about anything else. Enjolras craves the little noises coming from the back of his throat, the whispers against his lips, how wet and warm Grantaire’s tongue is against his skin, inside his mouth, licking and sucking. Demanding. 

Enjolras makes a point to show him who’s in charge, but then Grantaire is sucking at his jaw desperately and his tongue somehow finds its way to his ear and traces patterns in it and that’s _unfair_ , because Enjolras moans and forgets, presses their bodies closer together, rubbing himself once again against the flushed chest of his muscled partner. Grantaire bites his earlobe and Enjolras rolls his hips just above Grantaire’s erection, taking it in hand while he pushes him a bit away. He uses the remains of lube on his fingers and finds a way to take Grantaire in; gasps escaping their lips, Enjolras pressing a hand to Grantaire’s shoulder as the other man throws his head back. He looks beautiful, Enjolras thinks, untying the ropes behind him. 

Grantaire doesn’t make an effort to hold him—Enjolras supposes his muscles aren’t cooperating with him there—so he grabs hold of his shoulders and starts moving up and down, sliding in and out, rolling his hips, pressing lower until Grantaire is fully inside of him. At one point Grantaire takes hold of his hips, gripping viciously, jerking his hips and hitting that spot Enjolras loses his breath for. The chair rattles below them, a distant warning, as both of them grunt like animals, tightly embraced in the other’s arms. Enjolras kissing Grantaire, Grantaire kissing Enjolras, toxic in the air, until Enjolras throws his head back and arches his back violently, coming in waves. Grantaire follows right after, hiding his face in Enjolras’ neck. Enjolras rests his head atop his, doing his best to control his breathing.

“Bed,” he feels Grantaire’s lips on his neck emulating that single word and gets up, wobbly legs failing him for a minute. They collapse on the bed, mindless of the mess they are, Grantaire crawling his way to Enjolras chest and kissing his shoulder. 

Enjolras smiles.

:::

He’s a shadow in the background, a silent observer. 

Nobody notices him, just like he never notices them—his eyes only following the movements of the man with the dark curls and the sloppy smile. The way he ducks a blow and strikes another, fist connecting to jaw, ribs, nose. The way he laughs when his opponent falls, cheers of people that waste their money in bets instead of warm clothes. How he protects his face—his beautiful face, even when beauty is a concept he’s not familiar with—from bruises and scratches, getting them anyway. His breathtaking dance around the other man, mocking and endearing. The look on his face when he’s focused, when he plans out a strategy, when he pays attention to the details. How he gets rid of his shirt and sometimes his shoes, fighting with his body covered in sweat and dirt. The blood on his knuckles, the bruises dotting his ribcage. The shine in his eyes, the shit-eating grin. 

These things will always go the same way. Yet Enjolras watches, as he always does.

**Author's Note:**

> [come say hi?](http://m--emrys.tumblr.com)


End file.
